"Here, dominie," I said, "give me some of those tracts and I'll help you to push God's word along"—I rather surmised by then that he was out of tracts and had a momentary—just a teenty, decent little momentary pang of shame that I hadn't offered sooner.
But the missionary wasn't out of tracts. His clothes were full of pockets and they all held tracts. He dug up a pack and handed them to me.
That missionary seemed to exude tracts—I didn't know one missionary could hold so many
I started at one end of the car and he at the other, and every Jap in that car had a tract when we met midway.
We must have boarded six more trolley cars and still the tracts held out, and I had a few left in my pocket after the last car was served.
No tract was thrown away. They were read on the spot and then safely tucked away in the folds of kimonos, or respectfully received and tucked away to be carried home and read.
Every tract would serve five readers, on an average, the missionary told me.
We looked in on little mission churches scattered over Kioto, all under the jurisdiction of that one missionary. He told me how, through himself, his board had bought land and built the little missions, or were renting places for their work.